


daddy, watch your little black sheep run

by paperclipbitch



Category: Ant-Man (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Community: trope_bingo, Daddy Issues, F/M, Father-Daughter Relationship, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Howard Stark's Bad Parenting, Missed Chances, Misunderstandings, References to Drugs, Teen Angst, Teenagers, Underage Drinking, everyone is terrible, legacy babies, no underage sex because hope is 17 and that's legal in some states places right
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-06
Updated: 2016-03-06
Packaged: 2018-05-25 00:23:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6172657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paperclipbitch/pseuds/paperclipbitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Just so we’re clear,” Hope says, breathless, hands tangled in Tony’s hair and eyes bright, “we’re only doing this to piss off my dad, okay?”</p><p>“Hang on,” Tony replies, fumbling with the back of her bra, “I thought we were doing this to piss off <i>my</i> dad.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	daddy, watch your little black sheep run

**Author's Note:**

> [Title from _Sweet Dreams_ by Tori Amos] Written for **trope_bingo** for the prompt: _meet the parents/family_ , because, well.
> 
> Canon AU in that it sticks mostly to MCU canon, but I've had to change ages/dates/timelines in order to make this fit. I really wanted Tony and Hope to hang out as bratty teens, but the age gap between them meant that wasn't a possibility, so I've narrowed that and changed the dates and times of a bunch of things e.g. the creation of Pym technologies.
> 
> Basically, everyone is a bad father, Tony and Hope are brats, and things turn out mostly okay anyway.

Tony’s dad’s a genius, so he’s told, and often a drunk one, and he’s achieved a bunch of cool shit that’s apparently going to all be Tony’s one day, a legacy, tainted by the look on his dad’s face when he told him this.

Most of the time, his dad’s work stuff just seems to involve board meetings, and a lot less tinkering with things in labs than Tony would really like, and sometimes he makes Tony come along with him, like he’s trying to teach Tony something, though Tony has no idea what the lesson is supposed to be, except that being an adult is boring and his dad’s a _dick_.

He doesn’t mind it as much when Peggy Carter’s there, who’s apparently his dad’s oldest friend; she used to sneak Tony candy when he was younger and still comes over to have tea with his mom sometimes. This doesn’t actually involve any tea, mostly gin and cigarettes, and the only time Tony tried eavesdropping it was mostly his mom and Peggy making jokes about his dad, ones Tony couldn’t even try to understand. She does, at least, treat Tony like a real person, and he’s seen her slap his dad, which was _awesome_. Peggy says she works for the government, which may or may not be true, and Tony doesn’t much care; she’s less boring than most of the other people he has to spend time with when his dad is dragging him around like a pet or a trophy or proof of something.

They’re at Pym Technologies today, run by Hank Pym, who’s maybe even more of a dick than Tony’s dad, and seems to be mad all the time, and Tony’s not allowed in the meeting. This is fine with him, he’s got a _Playboy_ that his dad hasn’t even _noticed_ , let alone tried to confiscate, and a walkman with a Sonic Youth cassette, he’s fine.

They leave him in an office and Tony almost reminds them to crack a window like he’ll die like a dog, but in the end he says nothing, hopes someone notices the _Playboy_ and complains to his dad and he’ll come stomping back in here, all eyes and wrath.

Tony’s fourteen, and everything’s kind of melodramatic.

Hank Pym appears through one of the glass walls maybe ten minutes later, pulling a sulky-looking girl by the elbow. She’s dragging her feet in a way that Tony recognises, the kind that makes your sneakers squeak and pisses your parent off perfectly. 

Huh. Not that Tony pays much attention, but he didn’t know Hank Pym had a daughter.

“You can’t just wander off around here, Hope,” Hank is snapping at the girl when he opens the door and pulls her inside. 

“I didn’t _just wander off_ ,” she mutters, “I was just getting a soda.”

Hank Pym makes a disbelieving noise. “You need to stay here,” he tells her.

The girl snatches her arm back and looks at her father with a look of _loathing_ that Tony kind of wants to take notes from.

“Sure you don’t want to send me down to the first floor daycare?” she demands, faux-sweet.

“Don’t tempt me,” Hank Pym mutters, and the glass doors around here don’t slam, but he has a good go anyway.

The girl – Hope – throws herself into the nearest chair and glowers. She’s got messy black hair and torn jeans and a really good scowl, which she turns on Tony when he lets out a low whistle.

“So,” he says, “Hope, huh?” She carries on glaring, and, okay. Tony can get that. “I’m Tony.”

“I know,” she snaps.

Tony studies her for a moment longer, and makes a decision.

“How old are you?” he asks.

She looks at him with narrowed eyes before mumbling: “eleven.”

“Cool,” Tony says. “Have you ever read _Playboy_ magazine?”

Hope considers him, and then comes over to sit beside him.

They get caught later by that dick Carson guy who’s usually at these meetings, and they both get yelled at; Hope catches Tony’s eye at one point, and he winks.

-

“I am not,” Tony grumbles, tugging at his bow tie, “sitting at the fucking _kids’ table_.”

“Language, Tony,” his mom says mildly. He thinks she might be drunk. Tony wishes he was drunk. 

“You can sit with the adults when you prove that you can act like one,” his dad responds, sharp. He’s _definitely_ drunk, because that’s all he does these days.

“I don’t see why I have to come to- to _whatever_ this is,” Tony mutters, hoping that the limo will crash and they’ll all die in the ensuing inferno, try and make him sit with the kids _then_ , dad.

“One day, this will all be yours,” his dad replies, like he always does, and ignores him for the rest of the journey.

It’s a black tie dinner, possibly one for all the different companies Stark Industries liaises with, if the guest list is any indication, but Tony goes to a bunch of these when he has to, and they all blur into one after a while. He can usually manage to sneak some champagne and make out with someone unsuitable and make himself sick by the end of the night, anyway, no matter what his dad’s actual plans for him are. This is maybe why his dad perversely always makes him sit at the kids’ table, even though Tony is fifteen by now, and not a fucking _child_.

He finds his seat mutinously, slumping into it and undoing his bow tie now he’s out of sight of his parents. He glances at the placecard to his left to see who he’ll be stuck beside all night, and well. _Hope Pym_ is written in neat curling script. Tony tips his head. Maybe this won’t all be a total loss after all.

Hope’s had her hair cut since he last saw her, cropped angrily short, and she’s wearing a dress that someone clearly forced her into, and a scowl that’s even better than the last time he saw her, maybe a year ago.

“Tony,” she says, nodding semi-politely, as she throws herself into the chair next to his. 

“They stuck you with this shit too, huh?” Tony says, and Hope rolls her eyes. She’s wearing too much eyeliner.

“It’s a legacy,” she says, sounding bitter, fidgeting with the lacy hem of her dress. 

“Yeah,” Tony sighs, “I know all about that one.”

Other kids start appearing at their table, none of them as old as Tony and Hope, none of them looking as resentful as them either. Maybe that comes with age, or maybe their powerful fathers aren’t total dickbags.

Peggy, looking chic in a dark red dress, her mostly-grey hair pinned up in an elegant chignon, walks over, holding hands with a little blonde girl. 

“Tony, Hope,” Peggy says, smiling at both of them, greeting them with nods of her head like they’re adults, “this is my great-niece Sharon. She’s staying with me at the moment, and I thought she might like to come to a party. You’ll keep an eye on her for me, won’t you?”

It sounds like an affable request, but Tony doesn’t pretend it is one.

“Sure,” he says, as Sharon sits down on the chair to his right, looking a little nervous. He makes sure to give her his kindest smile; it’s not the kid’s fault Tony’s dad is a douchebag. “Hi, Sharon.”

Peggy spreads one of the cloth napkins over Sharon’s lap for her, presses a kiss to her golden curls, and then is walking into the milling crowd of adults drinking aperitifs and waiting for dinner to officially start.

Tony looks back to Hope, who’s digging in a little clutch bag, eventually producing a black eyeliner pencil with a triumphant sound. She picks up her placecard, and crosses out the _Pym_ , replacing it with _VAN DYNE_ in spiky smudgy letters.

“My mom’s name,” she tells Tony, when he makes an enquiring noise.

“Sure,” he says. “Do you know what to do with kids?”

Hope shrugs.

Peggy looks amused when she finds them a couple of hours later, a half-empty champagne bottle on the lid of the piano in the abandoned room they found, Tony picking out the notes for _This Charming Man_ and getting most of them right, while Hope, shoes off, encourages a giggling Sharon to dance with her. Hope’s just turned thirteen, so Tony’s had no compunctions about letting her share the champagne, but neither of them have let Sharon have any, because they’re not _monsters_.

“Really,” Peggy sighs, petting Sharon’s hair when the little girl runs over to cuddle her, “ _must_ you do this? Every time?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Tony says, hitting a jangle of wrong notes as he reaches for the champagne bottle.

“I won’t actually mention this to your parents,” Peggy says, “but I suppose that’s not what you want me to do, is it.”

Hope shrugs. Her eyeliner is smeary, a smirk ticking on her lips that’s probably related to the alcohol. 

“I’ll leave the door open,” Peggy sighs, taking Sharon’s hand, “I’m sure it’s only a matter of time before someone else finds you.”

“Thanks, Peggy!” Tony calls after her, and switches to playing chopsticks.

-

Tony gets to go to college early, ‘cause apparently the genius thing is inherited, and then it’s easy to get alcohol and pretty girls to make out with him even if he is a little short and seventeen, because the charm thing his dad apparently used to have is also something he inherited. Peggy’s got _stories_ , even though Tony’s pretty sure she wasn’t supposed to tell him most of them. 

Anyway, he gets to spend more time getting to be himself and less time trying to fight with his father while his father clambers into a decanter of scotch, and he rings home every week, dutifully, and talks oddly formally to his mom while his dad never wants to talk to him, not once, ever.

It’s nice, not living in the world of Stark Industries, trying to kid himself that maybe one of these days he’ll strike out for himself.

When his mom mentions, casually during a conversation, in between an anecdote about living room drapes he isn’t really listening to and a request for Tony to come home for Christmas, that Janet Van Dyne has died, it’s a little bit of a jolt. His mom doesn’t offer more details and Tony doesn’t ask for any, and he tells her he loves her five minutes later and they hang up, because there’s a line of other kids waiting to call their parents for the weekend, assure them that college isn’t as debauched as it sounds, though three of them are passing a joint while waiting, and surely _that’s_ going to be a fun conversation.

Tony goes back to his room and his roommate is out, and he collapses onto his bed and stares at the ceiling for a while. He’s… he doesn’t know what he’s feeling. It’s not like he knew Janet Van Dyne, had just kind of exchanged pleasantries and smalltalk a couple of times at events he didn’t want to be at, and it’s not like he’s seen Hope in a year, since his applications got accepted and he fled, but still. He thinks about Hope crossing through _Pym_ , thinks about every time they’ve been stuck in a meeting room while their parents talked about whatever it is they talk about when their kids aren’t there, and they aren’t friends, but.

He sighs, and rolls off his bed.

Hank and Hope are probably inundated with messages at the moment, and Tony’s pretty sure that they don’t want them, but he manages to find a florist and sends a bouquet just for Hope.

“Do you want to send a message with that?” the florist asks, and Tony hesitates, because, _what do you say_ under these circumstances?

He scribbles: _I’m sorry, kid_ , onto a card, and it isn’t enough, but the tightness in his chest that’s been loitering there since he spoke to his mom eases a little.

At Christmas, his mom tells him that she’s spoken to Hope Pym recently, and that she asked her to thank Tony.

“What did you do?” his mother asks, frowning at him, and Tony shakes his head.

“Nothing,” he says, but he’s smiling anyway.

-

Tony doesn’t go home when he can get away with it, so he’s bumming around Mexico with Jimmy Rhodes the summer that the tether between Stark Industries and Pym Technologies snaps and a whole load of shit hits the fan. 

He still rings his mom periodically to assure her that he isn’t dead or maimed, and she sounds vaguely hysterical when she tells him about it. Tony doesn’t care, but she doesn’t mention what actually went wrong, which Tony takes to mean that something _bad_ happened. He’s weirdly, darkly, glad.

“You need to go home?” Jimmy asks, slinging an easy arm around Tony’s shoulders. The military is paying for his time at college and he’ll repay them when he actually goes into the air force next year; it makes something tighten in Tony’s chest every time he thinks about it, so he’s mostly not.

“Nah,” Tony replies, rubbing a hand across his sunburned face, “pretty sure we’ve got some peyote left, come on.”

He trails home a couple of weeks later, where everything still seems pretty hysterical, and Tony has no idea what Hank Pym did or why his dad’s so mad, but he hopes that someone got punched in the face at some point, that would be great.

Peggy keeps coming over and trying to talk to his dad, but the sessions usually end with both of them yelling, and Tony’s mom is apparently just trying to stay out of the whole thing. Tony is too, but at least he has the added bonus of really not giving a shit.

He’s been home maybe ten days when he gets the phone call from Hope; she sounds darkly amused when she suggests they meet for a drink. They’re both still underage, but that’s never stopped Tony before, and he’s curious about what she wants.

They meet in a hotel bar, the kind where rich kids go to spend their daddy’s money with credit cards that don’t belong to them and IDs with the dates edited a little that a generous tip will make the bartender believe, and Tony’s happy to play that part tonight.

Hope is taller, taller than him now, and graceful at seventeen in a way that she wasn’t at all at fourteen. Her hair is longer again, glossy and sleek now, and she’s got the hang of applying make-up. She is, in short, pretty hot, and Tony opens his mouth to tell her so and then closes it again.

“Thanks for the flowers,” Hope says idly, stirring a cocktail olive through her martini, not looking at him. 

“You’re welcome,” Tony replies, the words feeling clumsy in his mouth. “I mean. I’m sorry about your mom.”

Hope smiles with her mouth but not her eyes, tight and flat, and says: “yeah, me too.”

It’s not like hanging out when they were pissed-off kids, there’s a note that never used to be there before, and Tony isn’t sure what it is or how he feels about it.

At one point he’s telling her a story about Mexico with Jimmy, and she throws her head back and laughs, far more expressive than she usually is, and reaches across the table to curl fingers around his wrist.

“Hope?” Tony says, doubtful.

She smiles, and this time her eyes are bright and glittering and yeah, he knows that look, thirteen and keeping watch in the parking lot while Tony keyed his dad’s car. “My dad pretty much wants to kill yours,” she says quietly.

“Yeah,” Tony agrees, “I’m pretty sure the feeling’s mutual.”

Hope smiles, teeth very white, and minutely tilts her head. “The photographer three seats over is very interested in how cosy we look right now.”

Tony feels a smile mirroring Hope’s spreading over his face. “ _Oh_ ,” he says, “you’re _bad_.”

Hope sips her martini, looks at Tony through her lashes. “That was the plan,” she agrees.

The pictures get published and his dad throws the paper at Tony when he finds out.

“Not _Hope Pym_ ,” he snarls, “that whole family, they’re poison, they’re shit for our stocks, and they’re unreliable selfish _bastards_.”

Tony wonders idly what exactly _happened_ , because while everyone knows about the feud between them now, no one seems to know how it started. 

“She goes by Hope Van Dyne now,” he replies, and walks out.

-

“Just so we’re clear,” Hope says, breathless, hands tangled in Tony’s hair and eyes bright, “we’re only doing this to piss off my dad, okay?”

“Hang on,” Tony replies, fumbling with the back of her bra, “I thought we were doing this to piss off _my_ dad.”

Hope’s mouth twists with amusement; it’s red and wet, and Tony’s enjoyed making out with her more than he’s going to admit. Still, it’s been making out with intent; his shirt is lying on the couch in the living room and Hope’s left a shoe and her sweater on the stairs, Tony’s belt in the hall, a carefully-laid trail of what’s meant to look like abandoned trashy lust. Tony knows that the cleaner in today is the gossipy one who passes on everything she finds, and even if she doesn’t find Tony and Hope _in flagrante_ , she’ll find the evidence and put two and two together. 

“I guess we can kill two birds with one stone,” Hope decides, and twists to help Tony, bending an arm back and unsnapping her bra. “There you go, Jesus, I thought you were meant to be good at this?”

“Bras are the devil’s work,” Tony tells her solemnly, trying to look her in the eye and not just stare at the newly-uncovered boobs in front of him. 

Hope rolls her eyes. “Go ahead, Tony.”

Tony cups her breasts with his hands and leans in to kiss her again; her skin is warm and soft, and just because there’s a specific _reason_ for this, it doesn’t mean that he can’t enjoy it. He experimentally thumbs a nipple and Hope makes a soft sound into his mouth, tightens her hands on his shoulders. 

They stumble toward his bed, Hope wrestling with his button-down jeans, Tony’s attempts to help her getting them nowhere, and she lets out an amused shaky laugh when they finally fall onto the mattress in a tangle of limbs and half-shed clothing. Tony crawls over her, brushing her messy hair out of her eyes, and she looks up at him with something unreadable in her expression.

“…you’re not a virgin or anything, are you?” Tony asks, suddenly struck by a worried semi-chivalrous thought.

Hope smacks his bare arm, hard enough for it to hurt. “Don’t be gross, Tony.”

“I’m just saying,” he mutters, sitting back so Hope can unzip her own jeans and scootch them over her hips, passing them to him to carry on dragging them down her legs.

“I’m not,” she says, firm, “and I don’t hate you, but my dad does, and those are good enough reasons for me.”

This is possibly kind of fucked-up, Tony reflects, but he’s slept with girls for worse reasons and Hope is _Hope_ , his perpetual partner in very specific crimes.

“We’re like Romeo and Juliet,” he muses.

“You definitely need to stop talking,” Hope decides, and pushes his head between her thighs.

The plan was to fuck once, have fun but get it over with too, get caught or don’t get caught and, of course, leave an ostentatiously used condom in the top of the trash. But there’s a lot of afternoon left when Tony collapses into the sheets next to Hope, and she smiles a sleepy satisfied grin at him and leans in to ruffle his hair. He keeps running gentle fingertips up and down her back afterwards, almost mindless, and Hope’s expression is thoughtful before she pulls him closer and kisses him. The second time is slower, almost lazy, their rhythm messy and disjointed as they keep kissing, sweet and wanting, limbs tangled. Tony pulls away long enough to look down at Hope, her hair spread out dark and luscious on the pillow, her face flushed and her eyes bright and happy, and just for a moment he thinks- 

Well, it doesn’t matter what he thinks, because about thirty seconds later is when they finally get caught.

-

The funeral is _awful_.

Tony hasn’t slept in about two and a half days, and his eyes feel dry and sore and he doesn’t think he’s cried yet, doesn’t know how to cry yet, and his suit is too tight and his tie is strangling him and he tried to make his hair lie flat in the mirror for about half an hour this morning until he gave up and Rhodey dragged him out of the bathroom and put his cufflinks in for him and told him that he could get through this, c’mon, Tony.

There’s a lot of people there, and Tony barely recognises any of them, maybe that’s just his sickly blurred vision or maybe it’s just they’re all parts of his parents’ lives, so increasingly separate from his.

He reads something, a eulogy he thinks he wrote himself initially, but he’s pretty sure Obadiah stepped in to maybe correct the sentences that were over a page long and maybe take out some of the swearing, the words don’t feel like his when he’s ploughing through them, spilling out of his mouth to this sea of people in black that feel like he’s back at college, shrooms and his roommate laughing while the walls slid down to pool at their feet.

Obadiah has a speech of his own, solemn and gracious, though Tony doesn’t listen to a word of it. Obadiah’s going to be CEO of Stark Industries until Tony’s ready to take over, and frankly, Tony would be okay with him keeping the entire fucking thing, forever, but some last shred of self-preservation has kept him from saying this aloud, anyway. Tony tries to keep looking ahead and not fidget or laugh or scream or something else you can’t do at your parents’ funeral, and Rhodey, sitting on Tony’s left in his military dress blues, looking so smart and adult and just… more than Tony does now or maybe ever will, leans into him a little, warm and solid and present. Peggy says something too, though she has to keep looking down at her notes and her words keep sticking in her throat and Tony looks at her and thinks detachedly _wow, she’s really fucking upset_.

There’s a wake afterwards, too many people crushed into the reception rooms, drinking and talking too loudly and stopping Tony periodically to tell him what a great man his father was, adding his mom’s death in almost as an afterthought, and Tony just nods numbly and lets himself drift through the sea of humanity, he’s not even old enough to drink the champagne everyone’s toasting the Starks with, and when Peggy finds him and pulls him outside he clings to her like she’s the only thing steady in this whole place.

Peggy sticks a cigarette in his mouth and lights it for him and Tony coughs but he can’t pretend this is his first time and when he manages a shaky drag it fills his lungs and he finally feels a bit less like the world is leeching out its own oxygen.

“I’m sorry, Tony,” Peggy says, quiet and forthright. It sounds worse, coming from her calm, honest tone than it has from the dozens of insincere mouths Tony’s encountered today, and he ducks his head, can’t look her in the eye. “I’m sorry you only ever knew Howard’s remnants and not the man he used to be,” Peggy adds. 

Tony drops the cigarette and Peggy pulls him into a surprisingly tight hug, given how frail she’s been looking these days, and he still isn’t crying but it takes a while to catch his breath again.

“Good boy,” Peggy tells him when he finally pulls away, and kisses his forehead. “Now, I’ll hand you back over to the care of the admirable Mr Rhodes.”

Rhodey, standing in the doorway, waves sheepishly. Peggy tends to have that effect on people, after all.

The afternoon drags on and on and _on_ and eventually Tony and Rhodey make a break for it, sneaking upstairs to sit against the hall wall and pass a bottle of champagne back and forth, and, hell, most of Tony’s parents’ parties ended up like this, why should this one be any different.

Hope appears a while later, wearing a black dress that’s just a little too short, and Tony looks at her bare pale knees and thinks about the ticklish spot behind the right one, thinks about the sound of his name on her mouth, and he hasn’t seen her since that afternoon with all the yelling and the crying and it seems so long ago and far away and maybe like it didn’t even happen at all.

“Hey,” she says, soft, and sits down on his other side, leaning over to swipe the champagne from a bemused-looking Rhodey.

“Hey,” Tony responds. “Did your dad come?”

Hope shakes her head. Her hair is shorter, swinging against her cheeks. “I figure he’ll turn up after dark to drive a stake through your dad’s heart and check he’s actually dead.”

“He’ll have to get in line then,” Tony replies, and hacks out a croaky half-laugh that hurts.

Hope sighs, and passes him the champagne. Tony swigs some and tries to work out if he should be doing something other than being graceless and tipsy upstairs, and can’t make himself move.

“This is Hope,” he tells Rhodey in the end. “And Hope, this is Rhodey.”

“ _The_ Hope?” Rhodey responds, eyebrows raising.

“Don’t say it like that,” Tony says, elbowing him, “she’s not my girlfriend.”

“Can she be my girlfriend?” Rhodey asks.

Hope makes a thoughtful sound.

“What,” Tony says, “want to escalate things with your dad by getting a black guy involved now?”

“I’m going to let that one go because it’s today,” Rhodey cuts in, “but don’t be shitty, Tony.”

“Like I haven’t spent the rest of the year making out with girls,” Hope adds, sounding scornful, “that’ll teach him to pack me back to boarding school.”

Yeah, it was pretty annoying that Hank Pym got his act together so quickly, actually. “There was so much mileage left,” Tony sighs, “I was thinking we could’ve had at least two pregnancy scares and maybe a shotgun wedding.”

“Your dad would’ve _loved_ that,” Hope says.

“I know, right?” Tony replies.

“God,” Rhodey groans, leaning back in for his share of the champagne, “now there’s two of you, Tony.”

“I’m definitely offended by that,” Hope tells him.

Tony is sure he was going to say something, but he’s just realised that so _much_ of his life has been taken up with ways to piss off his dad, to get his attention in the worst ways possible, and now… now that isn’t going to matter anymore. No matter what he does.

Hope’s fingers close around his wrist; they’re cold, and she’s got dark-painted nails that she bites. 

“I know,” she says softly.

Tony manages to nod. “I know,” he replies.

“I’m glad someone does,” Rhodey remarks, “‘cause I’ve got no skin in this terrifying game you two like so much.”

“Probably just as well,” Tony says, “you haven’t got the stomach for it, Jimmy.”

Rhodey elbows him; he’s trying to retire that nickname, with varying levels of success. 

They all sit in silence for a while, listening to the chatter downstairs, and eventually Hope offers: “you can always start trying to piss off that Stane guy, he looks like he’s got a pretty short fuse.”

“Obadiah’s okay,” Tony responds, because he’s not sure of much at the moment, but he’s sure of that, and anyway, at least the weight of Stark Industries hasn’t fallen in on him yet.

“Be a shame to retire your talents, though,” Hope says quietly, and Tony closes his eyes and thinks that she came here for _him_ , to be here for _him_ , and he doesn’t know what to do with that, where to slot it into his head, but he’s glad that she did.

“I really…” he tries, swallows, tries again. “I really want to do something inadvisable and awful and big and public, you know?”

Hope nods; she hasn’t let go of his wrist yet and Tony finds himself hoping that she doesn’t any time soon.

“Yeah,” Rhodey says, “but not tonight, Tony.”

“No,” Tony agrees, “not tonight.”

-

Scientists aren’t _great_ at parties, all things considered, but the original Greek meaning of _symposium_ is ‘drinking party’, after all. And hell yeah, Tony can know things that aren’t just about circuitry, you know.

Anyway, there’s an open bar, and a couple of chemists who are brewing up _something_ in their lab that packs a kick, and there aren’t underwear models, but Tony can get into this anyway. There’s decent music and noise and people, and he’s maybe supposed to be networking, but what the hell. Tony’s an _enfant terrible_ , and he’s fucking _great_ at it.

He’s also lying on the floor, he has no idea how the hell that happened.

Tony stays down for now, looking at the hotel ceiling – it’s fancy, it’s nice, it’s good, it’s… swimming a bit, it’s fine – and doesn’t worry too much about consequences; Stark Industries has already made its presentation, and he was great, and it’s not like he’s bothered to show up to any of the other talks or demonstrations. Obadiah lets Tony get away with pretty much whatever he likes, smooths things over with the board and the press; it’s super cool, he’s way cooler than Tony’s dad _ever_ was.

A pair of expensive black high-heels walk past Tony’s vision; he lets himself admire the legs above them, following them to their natural conclusion in a hemline, and then, further up, a face he knows.

“Hope!” he says.

She arches an eyebrow in an expression that only ever seems to get sharper every time he meets her. 

“Tony,” she responds, low and dry; he can barely make out the sound over the music, but sees her mouth form the right shapes.

It takes several ungainly seconds, but Tony manages to get himself upright, staggering a little. Hope doesn’t move to help him; her face is a little flushed from the heat in here, her eyes bright, but her expression is flat, unreadable.

“Let me buy you a drink,” Tony tells her, barrelling through whatever awkwardness it is that lingers between them; he didn’t even realise Hope was here.

“It’s an open bar,” Hope responds.

“I’ll buy you two then,” Tony says, and grins, brutal and bright, the one that drops panties like – well Rhodey’s analogy isn’t flattering, anyway. Hope blinks, steadily, and her mouth won’t curve.

“I’m good, thanks,” she says, stiff, and turns away.

Tony frowns, leans out to catch her arm. “Are you mad at me?” he asks. “Is this ‘cause I didn’t come to the Pym Technologies presentation? ‘Cause I haven’t been to anyone’s this weekend.”

Hope’s eyebrow does that thing again. “It’s been noted,” she responds.

Tony shrugs, loose, easy. “Obie doesn’t mind that kind of thing, he’s gone to most of them, anyway.”

Hope shakes her head, and pulls her arm free. “Sure, Tony,” she says.

Tony’s drunk, and possibly something else as well, and there’s loud music and glitter everywhere, but he’s not _completely_ out of it here.

“You _are_ mad at me,” he accuses.

Hope shrugs at him; he’s seen the expression flitting across her face before, but never aimed at him.

“Maybe I am mad at you,” she allows, and Tony feels his own teeth grit. Hope tips her head, with that infuriating calm that she’s never used on him. “Are you mad at me?”

Tony narrows his eyes. “Yeah,” he says, “yeah, I am, you fucking sellout.”

He wouldn’t have said it aloud if he hadn’t been pushed; if he wasn’t drunk and Hope wasn’t looking at him like that, like they haven’t entwined themselves over the years as co-conspirators, friends… whatever the fuck they are. 

Hope doesn’t move, but her cheek flashes red like he’s slapped her, and her eyes blaze. “‘Sellout’?” she echoes, brittle.

Tony leans in close to where she’s wearing a name label pinned neatly to her chest; _Hope Van Dyne, Pym Technologies_. He makes a show of reading it, and then flicks his attention back to her face, letting a sneer pull at his mouth.

“What happened to ‘I will never work for my father’?” he asks.

Hope shakes her head at him, like she can’t believe he’s saying this, not here, not now. “I grew up, Tony,” she responds, hard. “Not that you’d know what that’s like.”

“Oh, is that what you’re doing?” Tony asks. “I thought you were just taking the easy way out, you know, head down, good little girl-”

“As opposed to what?” Hope demands. “Pissing away my dad’s company because I don’t want anyone to think I actually _care_ about any of this, god forbid.”

“I’m _not_ ,” Tony snaps, “Obie keeps an eye on the company to-”

“Obadiah Stane is giving you enough rope to hang yourself with and you’re too coked-up to even notice,” Hope snarls, low and mean. 

It’s Tony’s turn to feel slapped, his stomach twisting. “You have no idea what you’re talking about,” he hisses back.

“I think you underestimate how much of your life you live in public, Tony,” Hope tells him. “Stark Industries is the only thing your father ever loved, so, what, you’re trying to make it a laughing stock? Trying to drive it into the ground? Trying to make it so it isn’t your problem anymore?”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t have the _option_ of crawling to my daddy and saying: ‘you know what, it’s okay, I forgive you for ignoring me after mom died, please, just employ me’-”

“I don’t forgive him,” Hope snaps, stepping in close, and she’s taller than him, has been for years, and her eyes are alight with something he hasn’t seen before, “I don’t forgive him and you don’t know shit about _any_ of this because you got off easy in the end.”

“Sure,” Tony says, and his voice sounds bright and sharp and naked in his mouth, “sure, both my parents dying in a car accident, that was super easy for me.”

Hope shakes her head. “I mean that you never had to learn how to interact with your father as an adult, you’ve never had to make those choices, you just get to be that bratty little boy who doesn’t get enough attention from his daddy forever and ever and ever. I don’t. I had to make decisions, and none of them were easy, and don’t you fucking _dare_ throw them back in my face like you have any idea how it feels.”

Tony’s forgotten that they’re at a party; forgotten that there are people outside of the angry little bubble crystallising around them. He startles a little at the man who appears at Hope’s elbow; he’s tall, wearing a slick sharp suit that’s not as expensive as Tony’s, but not too far off, either.

“Are you alright, Hope?” he asks, quietly, flicking a glare at Tony.

“This your boyfriend?” Tony asks, because he’s never been above trying for the cheap hits.

“I’m fine, Darren,” Hope responds, touching the man’s arm briefly and smiling at him. “Can you grab me a martini, and I’ll join you in a moment.”

The guy nods and leaves, and Tony does pay attention to his allies and competitors sometimes. “Darren Cross, huh? Guess you’re still fucking boys to piss off your daddy; you haven’t changed either, Hope.”

Hope’s expression curls with something like disgust, and she shakes her head and turns away. And then she turns back.

“You know what? Fuck you, Tony.”

“You’ve already done that,” Tony reminds her. “I’m on that list of shit you did as petty revenge against your dad, then screwed up and threw away when you realised you needed employment.”

“Well,” Hope responds, in a voice like a door being slammed, “I hope you enjoy getting your revenge on a man who’s been dead for five years, let me know how all that works out for you in the end.”

She walks away, the click of her heels lost under the music, and Tony looks around to realise they haven’t even gathered an audience. He’s not sure how to handle conflict that doesn’t end in a big public scene and photos in all the papers.

-

Tony leans back in his chair and groans. “More meetings, Pep? Can’t we cancel, you know, all of them? Pretend a cat got stuck in a tree or something.”

Pepper smiles that smile that means she isn’t going to let him get away with anything, even though _he’s_ actually _her_ boss. “It’s Ms Van Dyne,” is all she says.

“Oh.” Tony considers it, and then says: “you may as well show her in.”

Pepper smirks, that one that says she probably knows more about Tony’s history with Hope than Tony actually does, but all she does is nod and walk out. Tony watches through the glass door of his office as Hope appears, saying something to Pepper that makes her laugh, wide and open, and then Pepper’s leaving and Hope’s walking into Tony’s office.

“Wasn’t she your PA the last time I was here?” she says, faux-innocent, “and the time before that, and the time before that…?”

“Maybe I’m growing as a person,” Tony responds, refusing to be baited; Hope’s eyes are twinkling, and she settles herself comfortably into the chair on the other side of Tony’s desk.

“Sure,” she says, “seems… plausible.”

“Did you just come here to insult me?” Tony asks. “‘Cause if we’re doing that, we could just have met for lunch, Pepper can make a reservation.”

Hope screws up her nose. “Yeah… I don’t fancy having my picture taken by the whole host of paparazzi who follow you around these days.”

Tony shrugs. “I know, it’s ridiculous, you’d think I’d made a huge announcement lately or something.”

Hope’s eyes light up. “Iron Man,” she says. “ _Iron Man_.”

“What can I say?” Tony allows himself a smirk. “I’ve always known I was a superhero.”

“And you called yourself _Iron Man_ ,” Hope replies, gleeful. “I mean, of all the shitty names you could’ve picked, you went with fucking ‘Iron Man’. I know I spent about three years telling you that you were basically Bruce Wayne, but you could’ve chosen something less hideous.”

“Does what it says on the tin,” Tony snaps, bristling a little.

“That tin you fly around in?” Hope asks, still laughing. “The one that isn’t made of tin or iron? That one?”

“Yeah, yeah, laugh it up, I saw the pictures from the three consecutive Halloweens you dressed as Wonder Woman,” Tony says.

“I didn’t wear that costume outside to beat people up in, though,” Hope says. “How’s Rhodey taking your latest nonsense?”

“With less cackling than you,” Tony sniffs. 

“So he thinks you’re an idiot too,” Hope translates. “Well, an idiot with shiny paintwork, anyway.”

“I do everything with style,” Tony agrees.

Hope laughs, but she’s looking at him with something tight and thoughtful in her face. They don’t hang out that much, meeting for lunch or drinks a few times a year, maybe; their friendship, if you can call it that, has surprised them both by lasting, Tony thinks. They don’t get too involved in each other’s careers, knowing now exactly where the lines are: he hasn’t mentioned Hank Pym being removed as CEO of his own company, or the fact it was Hope’s vote that finally swung that. She, in turn, has kept her mouth shut about Obadiah, though it turns out she had a point about him all along. 

“You want to see the arc reactor, don’t you?” he says.

Hope ducks her head, but she’s smiling. “I really do,” she admits.

Tony huffs like it’s an inconvenience, unbuttoning his shirt. “I should start charging,” he murmurs.

“Sure, it’s not like you’re a billionaire or anything,” Hope says, coming over and perching on the corner of his desk so she can have a look at the device keeping Tony alive. He’s mostly gotten used to it by now, only thrown occasionally by the warmth and weight of it, its solidness in his chest where nothing used to be. Hope reaches out with gentle fingers to trace the rim; this close, the light of the reactor reflects onto her face, sparking her eyes. 

“I thought about you in the desert, you know,” Tony says, taking himself by surprise. That was never supposed to come out aloud.

Hope sits back, though she stays where she is, eyes searching his face like she’s looking for something. “I sent you some ‘I’m glad you’re not dead’ flowers when you got back,” she tells him, something guarded in her expression.

“Yeah, I got those,” Tony says. “They were hideous.”

“That was the plan.” Hope’s smile is real, but small, tense, like she knows this isn’t over.

“I thought about… well, loads of stuff, because when you’re a prisoner in a cave with a battery running your heart you get loads of time to review your life, I might write a book,” Tony says, realises he’s getting himself side-tracked like he does when he’s about to say something he actually means, and continues: “we didn’t talk for three and a half years, you know.”

“I know,” Hope says, “I was there for them and everything.”

He could let it go, of course he could, but Tony’s trying this thing these days where he saves the world and sometimes, inch by inch, he saves himself a little too.

“We’ve never talked about it,” he tells her.

“No,” Hope agrees, tight and sharp. “I didn’t want to, and I assumed you didn’t either.”

“I didn’t.” Tony hesitates for a fraction of a second, but what the hell, he barges in everywhere with explosives these days. “But we didn’t talk for _three and a half years_ , Hope. Why?”

Hope scrubs her hands across her face, and sighs as she drops them. “I wanted you to be something that you weren’t,” she says in the end, “and it took me kind of a while to realise that all I was doing was exactly what we hated our dads for doing.”

It’s easy enough to take at face value, but Tony looks at the half-caught, half-awkward expression Hope’s wearing, and he knows what she’s really saying.

“I think…” he sighs, but what the hell, he’s Iron Man these days, there’s no harm in saying things that don’t matter anymore. “I think for a time I wanted to be that something too,” he admits. “Or, I wanted you to be that something, or both of us to be… something we never were, anyway.”

Hope laughs, but there’s nothing mean in it. “And when did this occur to you?”

“Kind of a long time after the fact,” Tony admits. “But I wasn’t always that quick on the uptake, you were right about the coke thing, the nineties were terrible.”

“It was probably better that way,” Hope says.

Tony hums. “Maybe.”

Hope stands up from his desk, skimming her hands over imaginary lint on her pantsuit. “Anyway, you probably shouldn’t do that to Pepper,” she says, and that gleam is back in her eyes. “I mean, sure, you’re a superhero now, but Iron Man isn’t exactly a panty-dropping name, and it might work out better for you if you work out what you’re feeling while you still feel it.”

Tony keeps her gaze and doesn’t blink. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he says steadily.

“Sure,” Hope says, and shakes her head, “but if you get a clue, Rhodey will owe me fifty bucks, so, you know, there’s that.”

“I didn’t introduce you guys so you could gang up on me,” Tony protests.

“Side-effects,” Hope shrugs. “I’ll get Pepper to schedule in lunch when this media shitstorm’s died down, try not to get yourself killed in the meantime.” Her tone is matter-of-fact, but her expression is soft, and Tony knows she means it.

“Always do,” he responds, and salutes her as she leaves.

-

Peggy looks so fragile these days, propped up on her pillows with her arms full of wires, but her eyes are as sharp as they ever were.

“You don’t come to visit me as often as you used to,” she tells him, “but I suppose you’re busy nowadays. I see you on television making a nuisance of yourself, of course.”

“I’m _not_ making a nuisance of myself!” Tony protests, hearing the voice of his fifteen-year-old self spilling out unintentionally, and Peggy laughs, a dry crackle.

“Oh, Tony,” she says, “you and Howard never did know when to leave well alone.”

Peggy says his father’s name like she always has, matter-of-fact and comfortable, but since SHIELD dumped a bunch of confidential files in Tony’s lap and his long-dead dad saved his life, something about the sound is more complicated than it used to be.

“It never looked like it,” Tony protests, “you guys let me believe that all you ever did was have dull meetings and shuffle paperwork about.”

“We also did a lot of that,” Peggy says, and Tony tries not to think about when he turned up here, liquored up and pushing past the nurses, waving one of his father’s notebooks at Peggy and raving until he finally broke down and sat beside the bed, his face in her lap, sobbing great angry sobs while she patted his hair and said nothing at all, because there was nothing _to_ say. “I know you won’t like to hear it,” she adds, “but we were actually trying to protect you. The world… the universe is bigger than you could ever have understood as a child, and SHIELD was always dangerous, and Howard wanted you kept safe.”

Once upon a time, Tony would have snarled at her platitudes and thrown them back at her, but, hell, he tries to hold the world together while dressed in a metal suit that could kill him as easily as it could save him, and these days Rhodey and Pepper attract the danger nearly as much as he does, and sometimes he wonders what it would be like if they _didn’t_ know, if he could hide them away somewhere they can’t ever get caught in the crossfire.

“He could’ve been less shitty about it,” Tony says at last, when he feels like his voice can be trusted again.

“I never said his methods were particularly good,” Peggy responds, the corners of her mouth tilting, “I’ve lost count of the number of scrapes I pulled him out of over the years, at least half of them of his own making. But he wanted you safe like Hank wanted Hope safe, and for better or worse, well, you’re both still here.”

“Hope?” Tony echoes, and then: “holy shit, Hank Pym was part of SHIELD too, wasn’t he?”

“For a time, yes,” Peggy agrees, and there’s something dark and sad in her eyes. “I thought you would’ve put two and two together by now, Tony.”

Tony shakes his head. “I’ve been too busy having revelations about my own dad, I can’t handle anybody else’s right now.”

Peggy laughs again, and coughs, and Tony has to grab the glass of water kept by her bed to help her drink. It scares him sometimes, watching Peggy fade; he remembers her bright and strong and powerful and he can’t handle that sometimes, these days, she isn’t.

“You’re going to learn a lot of things about the world, Tony,” Peggy says quietly, taking his hand in one of hers. The room is hot, but her skin is cool. “And you won’t like most of them, but they’ll be the making of you.” She squeezes; still surprisingly strong for a bedridden old woman. “And one day you’re going to hold them up and view your childhood through the prism of them; try not to be too harsh on any of us when you do.”

“Hey,” Tony says, deflecting because he can’t bear her sombre tone, “I’ll never be harsh on you, you were always my dad’s cool crazy hot older woman friend.”

Peggy arches an eyebrow; for a moment he can see her the way she looks in photographs from the forties, all bright-eyed and movie starlet gorgeous.

“Tony,” she says, half-warning, half-amused.

“C’mon,” he says, “if I was ten years older and you were ten years younger…”

“Make that fifteen,” Peggy corrects him, but she’s smiling, and laughs again, smoother this time. “You’ve always been incorrigible. Bring Pepper with you next time; she makes you much more bearable.”

Tony rolls his eyes. “Yeah, Hope always calls her my ‘better half’,” he sighs. 

There’s something soft in Peggy’s face. “I’m glad that you and Hope have remained friends,” she says, “though of course the two of you were far too busy trying to hurt other people to realise that you were squandering a good thing.”

Tony still doesn’t know what to do with any of that, and anyway it’s too late now, so instead he says: “I bet she visits you more often.”

Peggy smirks. “Of course she does,” she says, “and she helped me out several times when Sharon was experimenting with her years of rebellion against her legacy.”

Tony’s main memory of Peggy’s great-niece is of a little girl in a party dress giggling by a piano, and with hindsight he suspects Peggy always knew that he and Hope weren’t exactly the most qualified of babysitters.

“She tried to fuck the system too?” he asks.

“It’s a tradition, I think,” Peggy says, and her expression is warm, like everything is forgiven.

Later, when visiting hours are over, Tony loiters by the desk and asks the nurses about Peggy’s condition, gritting his teeth against the parts that look bleaker every time he remembers to ask. 

“How is she today?” asks a voice to his left.

“Pretty lucid,” Tony responds on automatic, “and she hasn’t called me ‘Howard’ at any point, which always counts as a win.”

He looks up from the chart he’s been glancing over, to find he doesn’t know the young woman standing there with her arms full of flowers. She’s pretty, though maybe a little too young for him; he watches recognition light up her eyes, and she puts the vase of flowers carefully down on the nurses’ desk.

“Tony,” she says, and then smiles a little self-consciously. “It’s good to see you. I mean, you won’t remember me.”

Maybe he wouldn’t have done, if he hadn’t just been talking to Peggy, but Tony looks at her blonde curls and her dark eyes that look just like her aunt’s, and says: “little Sharon Carter, huh?”

She laughs. “I’m impressed.”

“I remember every girl I’ve ever danced with,” Tony tells her.

“Well, that’s clearly not true,” Sharon responds, but she looks amused, pleased.

Tony’s a flirt, it’s just a fact of life.

He thinks about what Peggy was saying, about how Sharon just looks like a young woman in jeans and a t-shirt visiting her sick relative with flowers, but her posture is very deliberate, and there’s a deliberate set to her jaw, and he wonders.

“So you wound up working for SHIELD, huh?” he hazards.

Sharon doesn’t even blink, which tells Tony everything he needs to know, and says: “and you’re using your father’s notes to build the future.”

Tony shrugs, caught: “guess all those parties they dragged us to had subliminal messaging in the string quartets after all.”

Sharon laughs, and looks like she’s about to say something more when one of Peggy’s nurses appears in the doorway to her room and tells them: “she’s awake for a little while.”

Sharon picks up her flowers again, and looks at Tony for a long moment. “It was good to see you, Tony,” she says.

“Yeah, you too,” Tony replies, and surprises himself by meaning it.

-

It’s raining and Tony should’ve gotten a cab but he didn’t, and his clothes are sodden and his sneakers are squelching and his hair is dripping down inside his collar.

Hope’s expression flickers when she pulls open the front door, but all she does is roll her eyes and step back so he can come in. “You’ve been busy lately,” she remarks.

“Well, so have you,” Tony points out.

She doesn’t deny it, just lets him kick off his sneakers and follow her through to one of the living rooms in this massive house she and her dad share. 

“I didn’t build a giant robot who tried to save the world by killing everyone,” Hope says, tone neutral. Tony presses a hand to his chest, going for wounded, but she adds: “ _please_ , Tony, that had you written all over it. Though to be fair, dad had a similar idea which he’s thankfully benched the plans for after seeing how it turned out for you.”

Tony could get into an argument, but that isn’t why he’s here. “Ant-Man,” he says instead. “All that shit you gave me for Iron Man, and all the while your family’s been sitting on _Ant-Man_.”

“We really need to stop letting men choose their own superhero names,” Hope muses. “I mean, I’m not responsible for it.”

“No,” Tony says, “Ant-Man this time was Scott Lang, ex-con.” Hope tries to keep a blank expression, but fails. “C’mon,” Tony says, “I’ve got dad’s files now, I know all about Pym Particles, and JARVIS picks out weird shit in the news for me. It didn’t take a genius to put it all together.”

“Scott’s good at it,” Hope says, voice carefully neutral.

“It should’ve been you in the suit,” Tony tells her.

Hope looks thoughtful, tipping her head to one side. “I thought that for a long time,” she says, “and dad said ‘no’, and I thought he was punishing me, I wasn’t enough.” She hesitates, bites her lip. “But my mom used to fight alongside him, she had her own suit and she called herself the Wasp, which is a better name than Ant-Man so my point stands, and on a mission her suit broke and she’s… well, maybe she’s dead, or maybe she’s just shrinking and shrinking and shrinking and lost in subatomic space forever.”

They’re silent for a long moment; the only sound is the rain hitting the windowpanes.

“It turns out HYDRA murdered my parents,” Tony offers at last, because it’s all he’s got.

Hope sighs, tries for a smile. “The more you know, huh?”

“Yeah.” 

Sometimes, Tony thinks about what Peggy said about reassessing his childhood through what he’s learned about SHIELD since then; about maybe she meant that he and Hope shouldn’t be too hard on themselves either, in the end.

“So, you’re working with your dad now?” he tries.

Hope nods, her expression hard to read. “It’s… well, we’re taking it a day at a time, but we’re trying out honesty these days instead of… whatever the hell we used to have.”

“That’s good,” Tony says. “I’m glad for you.” He means it, which surprises him a little; he thinks about yelling at Hope at a party, calling her a _sellout_ , and god, they used to be so _young_.

“Thanks.” Hope folds her arms, fingers plucking at her sleeve. “I’m sorry you can’t- I mean- do you ever think you could’ve patched things up?”

Tony still wonders this sometimes, especially when it’s late at night and New York is peeling off his eyelids and he’s faced with so many mistakes that what do a few more from his father count anymore anyway?

“We were too similar,” he responds on a shrug, trying for careless and missing, “I think… I think we’d have tried, and then we’d have failed, and it would’ve hurt everyone a lot more. I mean, I’m carrying on his work, I’m trying to be the man he thought I would be, and… I think that’s enough, you know? For me, anyway, and maybe for him after all.”

It startles him when Hope hugs him, but he lets himself lean into it because he’s probably earned it.

“Welcome to adulthood, Tony,” Hope tells him, but her voice sounds a little thick.

“Screw you too,” Tony responds, and pushes her away, gentle.

Hope swipes at her eyes, and then smirks. “So,” she says, “are you gonna come and meet my dad?”

“…what,” Tony says.

“We’re talking about legacies and reconciliation,” Hope points out, “want to mend the breach between Stark Industries and Pym Technologies?”

“Is your dad going to beat me up because we slept together?” Tony asks. “Because I’ve seen the shit that suit can do.”

Hope laughs. “He’s not going to hurt you, Tony.” She holds a hand out, and her eyes are bright. “Or are you too scared?”

Her eyes glittered like this when Tony handed her a lighter and then lifted her onto his shoulders so she could spark it against one of the building’s sprinklers. Hope was twelve, restless and frustrated, and although the labs at Stark Industries were all sealed, the corridors were soon half-flooded, angry scientists and personnel soaked and heading outside. Hope and Tony hurried to join them in the hope they wouldn’t get caught, but Hope slipped on a flight of stairs and broke her wrist, and Tony’s dad wouldn’t talk to him for nearly a month.

“What the hell,” Tony says, and takes Hope’s hand.

“Good,” she responds, “‘cause he’s waiting for us. The tea should be about ready.”

“You set me up,” Tony accuses, as Hope drags him down the hall. 

“You set yourself up,” Hope tells him, and then they’re in the kitchen, and Hank Pym is standing there.

He’s older than the last time Tony saw him in person, and he doesn’t look pissed either. He’s not sure how to feel about a Hank Pym that isn’t furious.

“Tony,” Hank says, coming around the table and holding out his hand. 

“Hank,” he replies, and takes it.

Hank’s grip is firm and they shake; Tony can see that part of Hank will always see him as that stupid reckless little boy, but that isn’t all he sees now, and he’s willing to move past it. Tony, for his part, should probably stop carrying the joint anger of his dad and Hope; neither of them are still dragging it around anymore, after all.

“Great,” Hope says, and sits down to pour them all tea.

“I imagine you’ll want to see the Ant-Man suit blueprints,” Hank says as he settles himself down, reaching for the sugar bowl.

If that’s his idea of a peace offering, Tony likes him already.

“I really would,” he agrees, but… oh, what the hell. “What I really want to see is you doing weird shit with ants.”

Hope laughs, not even bothering to hide it.

Hank shakes his head, looking suddenly softer, older. “That’s exactly what Howard said when I first met him,” he says.

Tony feels all kinds of things hearing that; it makes him feel the way Peggy does when she tells him a story about when she and his dad first worked together, and it’s awesome and funny and cool and interesting, but the man Peggy talks about doesn’t sound anything like the man Tony remembers, and he’s starting to try and learn that that isn’t always the end of the world.

“Yeah,” he says, aware of Hope’s eyes on him, “yeah, I bet he did.”

**Author's Note:**

> Sob, I just wanted to write like 2k of teen!Hope and Tony shagging to annoy their respective parents, HOW DID THIS MONSTER OF EMOTIONS COME OUT OF IT INSTEAD. Ha, I know, Jenn, your own daddy issues are showing, obvs.


End file.
